Intrigue
by TheGhostisReal
Summary: Really, no one ever expects these things to happen until they're staring you right in the face. Perhaps while making out. Will keep posting here if it generates interest. Bryan Fury/Dragunov. Updated rating, just for you. Tragically on Hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

An explosion, the file said, and nothing more. Maybe it explained the scars, the silence. Maybe it only explained one or the other. Details, of course, eyes- blue, hair-black, six foot two and a hundred seventy-five pounds. Spetsnaz, celebrated. Twenty-six, young for his accomplishments. Maybe he'd look his age if he ever changed his facial expressions. Bryan hated Intel, most boring part of the tournament. Particularly intel on some no-name Russian with no feasible reason for the King of Iron Fist. But what reason did Bryan have, either. He just wanted to know if he could still fight. He closed the computer and rolled on to his back, stared onto the ceiling. Ten years ago, he'd be trying to fall asleep. Not human enough to sleep anymore. Not even human enough to masturbate himself into a good night's rest. Some days he wished he still had nerve endings. Then he got into a fight and was grateful for the lack of feeling, even in his extremities. He'd never had much use for them anyways. Whether it was his idea or not, he'd often make a move on a lady only to have his intentions turned against him, even when he was human, interested. He'd never been able to get laid, after a while it ceased to matter.

Something thumped against the wall. Repeatedly. Almost rhythmically. Bryan sat up, ear to the wall. If the room had the same layout as his, the thumping was against the back wall, by the window. With some force, another tournament player, likely. Someone who knew how to throw a punch against a solid wall, apparently without harm. Bryan assumed it to be male, the force of the blow insinuated a strength he didn't see in any of the female tournament players. Perhaps he wasn't giving them enough credit, he had to overestimate his opponents if he wanted to get anywhere. But he still found himself thinking he was stronger than any of the human players. The wall stopped banging, but Bryan stayed against the wall, listened to the man shuffle around the neighboring room. He was dead quiet, Bryan had to resort to his mechanics, sense over the room. He proved it was male, tall, lanky, uncomfortable in the room, likely meaning he was foreign. He wouldn't introduce himself to his neighbor, until he was taking him down in a fighting arena.

A knock. Bryan found himself looking at a small, attractive Aisan girl, Mishima Zaibatsu uniform.

"Mr. Fury?"

"Good enough."

"Your presence is requested at a King of Iron Fist introductory banquet. Formal dress is required."

"Yeah, yeah alright." He wasn't fond of formal events, socializing, doing anything to these people besides taking them down. Even still, he pulled on a dress shirt, checked his pants for stains or holes, and made his way to the banquet hall.

He remembered the bar. Bryan sat at a stool and was greeted with hard whiskey. "Remember me from last year?" He mumbled, to the nod of the bartender, "and the year before that, and the year before that, huh."

The stool next to him was occupied, the Russian. He simply pointed to a displayed bottle of vodka, nodded. Bryan marveled at how he got the point across silently, didn't seem to even notice Bryan watching him, and if he did, didn't acknowledge it.

Same opening speech, same encouragement to take advantage of the Mishima Zaibatsu's hospitality, play nice when the battles are not in effect. Old friends greeted each other, hugs and kisses that crossed language lines, relationships cultivated outside the tournament. Outside these walls, Bryan knew no one. Didn't want to. Lei Wulong he knew he didn't like, Yoshimitsu neither, but, as usual, he had decided not to attend. And Bryan didn't want to pick a fight here. He'd just end up getting gangbanged by the Jack army. Instead, he nodded to the Russian, didn't get a nod back. But he was acknowledged, a small hint of expression. He made a few gestures for the bartender, who refilled Bryan's drink.

"I think it's trying to tell me it's buying your drinks."

"It?"

"That."

"Yeah. Uh, thanks." He raised his glass to the Russian, surprised to see the same gesture returned to him. Even more surprised by those pale blue eyes, the only way into the uniformed man, immaculate, pressed and severe. Even so, the eyes were a little soft, mostly thoughtful. His mechanical brain told him this was Sergei Dragunov, the soldier he couldn't figure out, who made him sick tired of Intel. The human brain let it, distracted to levels of profane stupidity by blue eyes. He snorted, turned away. Hated distractions, especially of the sort that made him feel wrong. But he stayed, accepted the drink, not surprised by the lack of accompanying conversation. File had said he'd been near to silent for years now.

And they were there until long after the party had dissipated, drinking silently, but unquestioningly together. Sometime close to three in the morning, Bryan's drinking partner laid money on the counter, and got up to leave. Bryan caught his arm.

"Thanks."

He nodded, placed his gloved hand over Bryan's if only for a moment. And for that moment, even the scars softened and he was threateningly human. Human enough to take down at the fights the next morning, and human enough to never quite care about. But as soon as Bryan released his arm, Sergei Dragunov was an object of intrigue, if not quite lust.


	2. Chapter 2

He always wore gloves. One stained red, fingertips, always as perfectly pressed as he had been at the party. Bryan was fascinated, the way he fought was guttural, primal, and soft grunts gave away that he was capable of noise, chose to avoid it. He had less companionship even than Bryan in this world, kept entirely to himself and the other fighters gave him a wide berth. Even the unnaturally social Xiaoyu, with whom Bryan shared a kind of companionship with when she approached, had gone nowhere near the Russian. He sat on his own, arms clutched around himself, one leg crossed over the other, head down, not really watching a tournament fight between a Spaniard and a sumo. Bryan approached, heard a soft hum from the man.

"Imma' sit here, right?" Bryan didn't really ask so much as he demanded.

He nodded, the humming stopped. Didn't look at Bryan.

"Name's Bryan Fury." He jutted his hand out, demanding to be noticed. He never made friends at these things, in fact, he avoided it at all costs, but the man intrigued him. He was severe, serious, and yet unleashed, in some odd manner. Never registered any emotion, hardly recoiled even from the hardest of blows. He took Bryan's hand almost delicately, made the briefest of eye contact, didn't respond.

"And you are…?" Bryan chanced what he hoped was not a terrifying smile. He was ignored. It was becoming a challenge, a little something to entertain himself outside the fights, trying to get a reaction out of the militant. He sulked. "You're Sergei Dragunov and you don't talk. Even though you can."

For that he got a nod in the affirmative. But the knit of his brow, a slight increase in temperature, only registered by his mechanical eyes, told him it was more complicated than his rather blunt assessment. He wasn't watching the fights anymore. They continued, he couldn't tell who had won and who had lost, turn out bad in the long run when he didn't know who he had left to fight, but he was too busy analyzing the man next to him. His posture, sunken into himself, he knew he was not being watched by anyone who would care, and a little bit bored. Made eye contact for no more than a split second at a time, introverted, or disinterested. Out of habit he was immaculately pressed, his fighting uniform unstained and meticulously worn. He gave no insight as to his personality by his stature or appearance, the only thing Bryan had seen that gave him away as human at all was the soft, melodic humming he had interrupted. Bryan didn't even know the tune. He tried to extrapolate, from the sound, what his voice might sound like, and fell short. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looked back to the other man, met with no expression, no eye contact, just a glance, out the corner of his blue eyes.

"Hey, uh, thanks for buying my drinks the other night."

This seemed to work. He was rewarded with a slight smile, a nod.

"Any reason?" He was having a conversation with himself. And yet he kept trying, looking to the man, as if waiting for a response. His cold blue eyes almost told him how pathetic he was for trying, there was a reason no one talked to him.

"I mean, 'cause if this is a gay thing, not sure how I feel about that, guess, since I can't talk to you and all." Wanting something, anything to get a reaction. All he got was a cynically raised eyebrow, tiny smile, as if to ask if he liked the idea. Were he to speak. Sergei looked away, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the Russian's shoulders shake with silent laughter. Bryan laughed.

"Is it?"

No response.

"You're shitting me."

Still nothing.

"You really wanna' fuck me or something?"

His head snapped to Bryan, one eyebrow raised, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Classic signs, his brain told him, of frustration. Stood, extended his gloved hand to Bryan, led him away from the crowd and from the fight. Into the hotel, showing himself to be the neighbor Bryan had spied on his first night, Bryan blocked his entrance.

"What're you going to do?"

The expression said it all. He thought Bryan was stupid for asking. He wanted to touch him, was shy, or perhaps scheming. His eyes closed a long time. Then his hand slid over Bryan's, and he stepped very close, so close Bryan could smell the faintest hints of cigarette smoke and his mechanical sight picked up every breath, the flicker of his eyes when he tried not to make contact with them. To anyone else he would appear steady and confident, even condescending. He wondered if the man knew what Bryan saw, if that would at all change this pursuit.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry it's short. Actually, no, I'm not sorry. This is exactly where I wanted to end this segment, so yes, it's short, but it's worth it. Not the size, how you use it. Hit me up on aim, I'm bored. isnotaboutdrag.

His room was as immaculate as his appearance. One suitcase brown leather, with a concealed pistol Bryan's mechanisms picked up, and even that was closed and in the closet. The rest of the room didn't even look lived in. The door latched behind him, and Sergei was staring out the window. He didn't have a view, it was a parking lot. Bryan stood behind him and watched cars speed down the highway, oblivious to the chaos in the Mishima hotel. And standing there, in silence, with Sergei Dragunov, he felt more connected to humanity than he had in years. Most days he didn't even consider himself a part of them anymore. He could see, in one way, the warmth of the other man's breath, and in another way he watched the rise and fall of his shoulders and saw exhaustion. The tournaments could take it out of anyone, even the most stoic of soldiers. He placed his hand on one shoulder, ran down his arm, rested there. The man looked over his shoulder, didn't meet Bryan's eyes. Bryan had never seen him meet anyone's eyes, avoided faces as often as he could without seeming wrong. He was staring at the tattoos of Bryan's neck. The tip of one gloved finger moved along the ink, traced the swirling designs that covered the sides of his throat. Bryan grabbed his hand, forced him there.

"Look at me."

Sergei's eyes flickered down, over Bryan's chest, the corner, out the window briefly, ignored the command.

"Look at me." More stern, shook his hand, backed the only slightly smaller man against the wall.

Ignoring him was an act of defiance. Snapped his hand away from Bryan, tried to brush past him, but by this point Bryan was just as stubborn. He pinned the Russian to the wall, forced his face up and sought his eyes. Sergei's eyes flicked back and forth, never settled on Bryan's, they were too blue, too clear, almost white but they wouldn't settle.

"Fine."

He shook his head slowly, still held in Bryan's hand. I can't, he seemed to say, I can't. Sunk down against Bryan without ever touching him, didn't fight, let his head stay by then cradled in Bryan's hand. Intentionally, he didn't look through his mechanical eyes, tried to see the world the way Sergei Dragunov did. Grey and impersonal, not all that different from the way his mechanical perception deemed the world around him. He turned his hand to cup Sergei's face and raised it, and finally, only for an instant, he met Bryan's eyes. That was all he needed.

"This is one of those queer things, huh? You've just got no way of saying it. Well, anything, really. That's okay. Words are overrated."

Sergei took his hand, moved it away from his scarred face, drew Bryan's attentions to a deep mark through the corner of his mouth. He put his gloved hand against it, trying to cover it, perhaps, but Bryan moved his hand. He liked the scar, in his own strange way, like he had found another survivor. Except that Bryan hadn't survived. And neither had Sergei, in his own way, never speaking, cut off entirely from the living world, cold and immaculate and as inhuman as Bryan. He ran the pad of his thumb against Sergei's scar, and in return had the long line bisecting his left eye traced by a red stained glove, followed by the strangest, softest of kisses just at the tip of the scar, below his eye. And, as sudden as the rest of it, he was left alone. The room was empty, the Russian had left. He let his mechanics pick up the scent and followed.


	4. Chapter 4

Through hallways into a part of the hotel only accessible to the tournaments, meant to keep hidden hardly legal activities that peppered the tournament with deaths and disappearances, Bryan heard the almost human sound of a punching bag. Sensors picked up his prey, his Russian, who kissed him and ran away. And he wondered if the man wanted to see him at all. And finally decided he didn't care. He caught the back of the punching bag, peered past it. Sergei rested his hands on his knees and breathed deep.

"What just happened?" Bryan knew he could really only ask rhetorical questions. He received nothing in return, precisely what he had expected, and sent the punching bag a blow that sent it flying off his hinges.

"You can at least explain the last ten minutes, can't you?"

Bryan had failed to notice, in his assesment of Sergei Dragunov's character, that he stood taller than Bryan by only the slightest hint, but when his interest stepped closer to him, closed his eyes and rested against Bryan, he felt the slight difference. Sergei's hands moved down Bryan's arms, his eyes were closed and he rested close to Bryan in this strange, quiet manner, hardly even breathing.

"So do you want full candlelit dinner dating, or do you just wanna' fuck?"

He felt laughter against his chest. Heard nothing, of course, but he felt the slight rise and fall of laughter, and a hand clutched on his arm. Unfeeling, Bryan rested his hand on the small of the other man's back. He was aware of the heat of his breath, the steady beat of his heart and the smallest pangs of laughter still residing in his chest. He knew the military standard fabric of his uniform, the blend of threading and a place where it had been repaired. But he didn't feel it, he registered it's existence and his interaction as he clenched his fists, felt nothing.

They were kissing. They were kissing and Bryan didn't know how to kiss back and that didn't matter at the moment because no one had started it- they were kissing. It started slow and timid and strange and with only a slight tease to Sergei's lower lip he proved to be a passionate kisser. Though pinned against the wall Sergei Dragunov was in charge of the act. Their mouths were opened to each other and Bryan registered every movement and every slip of the tongue and even the slightest, softest moan a normal man would never have heard. He was more than aware of the heat, no matter what he felt, he was dragged into the kiss by Sergei's unrelenting passion. He didn't have to breathe and once again he was grateful, had he been merely mortal he would have been rendered breathless. Those cold, iced over blue eyes met his and Sergei gasped for breath, let both hands trail the sides of Bryan's face, searching for something in his face and not his eyes. His eyes had only been Bryan's for a second.

The Russian pushed him away and Bryan threw a wild, half blind punch that was easily ducked under. Sergei swept him off his feet with a smooth kick, he fell to his back to stare up into a boot to his face. He grapped Sergei's ankle, didn't register the pain, and brought him to the padded floor, trapped his wrists with a hand and forced him down with the weight of his body. One hand tangled in his hair and he watched the column of his throat while the pale man heaved for breath. Bryan undid the top button of Sergei's uniform shirt, reached for the second only to have the tables suddenly turned. Bryan registered the punches without feeling them, felt the back of his head collide with the padding again and again. He ripped the second button of the uniform shirt away and began to see the scarring that had started on his face. Instead of running, Sergei Dragunov trembled and the punches stopped.


	5. Chapter 5

Bryan sat up, ran his fingers over the scars, made aware of the raised lines of skin, aware of his shiver, aware of the heat but he felt nothing. Another button and it finally registered that strange emotion that tore up the man's face was comprised mostly of shame. Bryan didn't have the right programming to tell him it was alright, and he thought the scars were beautiful in their own way. He kissed the curve of one, spreading his fingers over the other man's back. Impulse, stupid human impulse that still lingered in his mechanical mind moved him and made him more intimate than he had thought himself capable of. But the shame did not dissipate, maybe he covered up because he wanted no one to see the damage. He couldn't really cover his face. He smelled a little like nicotine and there were beads of sweat on the side of his throat. The leftover human side of him begged to lick them away. So he did. Sergei moved away, backed up, stared Bryan down.

"Thought this was what you wanted."

Sergei did the buttons on his uniform shirt back properly. His fingers slipped, and the act took far longer than it should have, standing, he shook deeper and collapsed sinking into a corner chair. His head buried in his hands he didn't move, pulled into himself he was painfully human and Bryan wasn't sure he knew there was someone who could see him like this and not think any less of him. Bryan knew touching him again would be a bad idea, his head rang just a little bit from the assault. But there was something about him that made Bryan feel more human in a way he found himself liking. He wanted to be closer but Sergei had already left.

Bryan Fury couldn't remember the last time he dreamt but if he ever did again it would be of Sergei Dragunov. It would be of the inches of scarred flesh he had uncovered, extrapolate the rest. The way he kissed, impassioned so much beyond his demeanor to the others. Bryan wondered what his hands looked like, if they were as scarred as he seemed. If Bryan could dream he would dream of kissing every scar, tracing his tongue along the longer ones and revealing the broken body hidden by uniform and shame. In his fantasies his dreams were almost profane and more than that fascinated, but all the same they would result in a climax he wasn't sure he was capable of. He hadn't tried since the mechanics began to keep him alive. If he could call what he was alive and he hadn't wanted sex so badly in years. Only time he had wanted it from another man. He laid on the hotel bed and let his mechanical mind watch Sergei pace in the room over. Let himself become aware of the strength and vitality inherent in the Russian. So much more alive than Bryan was or ever would be. He imagined the trails he would move over Sergei's body and created those trails on his own scarred chest. He felt nothing but he knew the reaction from his skin, the prickles of goosebumps and the tightness in his chest. Apparently, Bryan assessed, though he didn't feel it he could still become aroused. Aroused when imaging, wondering if Sergei's skin would be soft and if he would actually utter a sound when he was in the throes of passion. If he would moan Bryan's name. Whether he would clutch at Bryan's skin or if he would grab of strands of hair long enough to hold on to. Bryan opened the front of his pants to relieve some of the pressure he knew would hurt if he could feel and he wondered if Sergei would drag out the foreplay or rush headlong into more carnal pleasures. If he would feel anything more than this vague sensation, this tickle in the back of his mind that might once have been feeling. Even before he had died he hadn't jerked off much but with the temptation just on the other side of the wall, the nicotine taste of kisses he shouldn't have taken he did, just to see if he still could. His mechanics told him his body was overheating, that his breath was coming too quickly, his heart rate increased dangerously and the chemicals releasing into his brain might just be dangerous. Proof that he could still make love, if Sergei would let him.

In a way it was a new game for him, the attempts to steal what Sergei had tempted him with.


	6. Chapter 6

Author: Apologies for the delay in posting. I have no excuse, go ahead and eviscerate me. Oh, and if this offends you in any way, shape or form, you can tell me all you want but I promise it will do you no good. Of course, if you like it, go ahead and tell me I bake really good cookies. AIM- isnotaboutdrag (I like conversations)

In a way it was a new game for him, the attempts to steal what Sergei had tempted him with. He saw his prey lingering around the tournaments, arms crossed behind his back and avoiding Bryan. He was vicious in the arena and he never lost. Bryan wasn't sure how he managed such inhuman perfection when all his readings scanned mortal and wounded. There were scars deep buried under his skin, the kinds of wounds you just learned to live with. Bryan wanted to help him live through those, past them, bring him back to more human than Bryan because at the moment he was less. If he would ever speak to Bryan again, look at him again, if he would ever speak at all.

He slid his gloves off and rubbed his hands together. Bryan watched with no hidden fascination, his hands were strangely unmarked, and they trembled a little, he pulled the red stained gloves back on almost immediately. Caught Bryan's stare. Emboldened, Bryan marched across the tournament seating to where he stood. He grabbed Sergei's wrist and pulled the man close to him.

"We gonna' sort this shit out before we have to fight?"

His eyes asked what there was to sort out. The grip on his hand barely tensed, tongue shot out and licked his lower lip. Bryan's mechanical mind read nervousness. His human side didn't care. He walked Sergei into the hallway and trapped him against the wall. There was no way the other man could trap him if he was unwilling. He stared Bryan down, defiant, wrenched his hand away but didn't leave.

"Look, it's not bad, whatever it is I mean you're not a bad kisser, I could get used to that, I just wanna' know what it is."

Even his mechanical mind couldn't get a proper grip on the emotions and thoughts as they flew over Sergei Dragunov's face. More unexpected was the hand that trailed down Bryan's bare arm, laced his gloved hands with Bryan's fingers and stepped close. His eyes smiled, watching Bryan's face but not his eyes, he leaned forward to press his scarred lips to Bryan's cheek. So he threw his arms around the Russian, pulled him close and eliminated the distance between their lips. "Yeah, I could get used to this," barely a whisper from Bryan. "If you're okay with it I guess."

Sergei barely nodded against Bryan's shoulder, his arms clasped around him. A quiet moment Bryan couldn't stop himself from analyzing, taking in the subtle details of Sergei's posture, slouch of his shoulders relaxed, but his fingers tense, his breathing deep, calm, but his chest shook just the tiniest bit. He was conflicted, his mechanical mind told him the posture was defined as such and it was left to his human mind to determine the best course of action because his mechanical mind told him to break away from the temptation and destroy it's source. Told him he was a machine meant to kill rather than a human who had never had the chance to care. He couldn't say for sure which he wanted to be. He didn't care, he was being held. Awkward, he moved his hands up the other man's back to settle at his shoulders and pull him close because it was all he could think to do, every human part of him screamed to not let go. A greater thrill ran through him than any fight he had ever been in, this quiet moment rivaled any cry of victory he could remember and it was more terrifying than waking up and realizing he had died back there.

"You sure this is what you want? 'Cause I ain't gonna' buy you flowers and I don't really like the idea of cuddling and I'm not much for conversation, but, well, I guess neither are you. And I hog blankets and I think I'm usually pretty cold on account of not being alive and all, I guess what I'm trying to say is I'd make a pretty shitty fuck buddy and an even worse boyfriend." Bryan almost laughed at himself for trying to talk his prey out of giving him what he wanted.

Sergei laughed in his awkward, silent way and shrugged, kissing Bryan in his favored place, right at the end of his scar.

"I'm taking that to mean 'I don't give a shit'?"

A nod, and Sergei slumped to the floor against the wall, took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his uniform and lit one in a smooth motion, looked up at Bryan, inviting him to sit. His original assessment had been right, his mechanical mind drew the conclusion, Sergei Dragunov did look younger when he actually showed facial expressions.


	7. Chapter 7

Dear Internet: Short update, but the next one will hopefully make it worth it. I love every single person who has reviewed this, put it on their favorites or alerts, or somehow let me know they enjoy it. I wish all of you cupcakes and happiness and miniature Godzillas as loyal pets.

When Bryan sat, Sergei moved closer to him so their shoulders barely touched. Acting on instinct, Bryan slid an arm around his shoulders and pulled close. He didn't even know he had that instinct before that moment, in silence save for the draw and the slight singe of the cigarette. The shuffle of his sleeves. He let his fingers trail to the side of the Russian's neck and trickle along, knowing the softness of his skin. He liked the way Sergei moved closer to him with the touches. He snubbed out the last of his cigarette, stepped on it, and stood, held out his hand to Bryan.

They walked hand in hand back to the tournament, and Bryan watched him fight with new eyes. He watched the way the muscles tensed and released, watched him analyze, almost as inhuman as Bryan was. He watched, fought without passion, but gripped and grappled as a madman. Dark pants pulled tight in his tactical uniform and Bryan wondered idly how well endowed he was. If that mattered. Sergei won, of course he won, and returned to his seat beside Bryan with hardly any fanfare. His eyes skimmed over Bryan and he moved closer, bit his lower lip. Bryan noted that when he did so, he avoided touching his scar. Bryan wanted to know where it came from, how someone got a scar like that. He knew, had to know, every mark comes with a story. All his own did, survival and things that weren't quite, places where his body had been made more machine than man, and the scar that killed the human who once called himself Bryan. He knew Bryan Fury was not his real name, but it was close enough and he didn't remember and didn't quite care to. He wondered if Sergei Dragunov was his new (partner's) (lover's?) real name, wondered if it mattered. They were never going to show their true faces to each other either way. If they had real faces to show. He knew he had become what he pretended to be so completely he'd forgotten what he was.

Sergei watched, with slight confusion, when Bryan went into his own room that night. Bryan knocked off his clothes and collapsed on top of the sheets and wondered why it was he couldn't sleep off the day, waited for morning. He let his mechanical eyes seek out the warmth of his neighbor, watched his body toss and turn on the hotel bed. There was a part of Bryan that hadn't been there before, it wondered why Sergei couldn't sleep. Wished he could see more than signs of life through that wall, if Sergei had taken off his uniform, what he wore to bed. If he took his hair down. The mechanics in him reminded him none of this mattered, and informed him, coldly, of Sergei's life expectancy compared to his own. He wasn't aging anymore, and Sergei Dragunov was already twenty-six. He turned off the mechanical eyes and resolved to end whatever this had become the next morning. Consciously decided he would rather be a mechanical monster, the legendary Dr. Frankenstein kind, rather be whatever he was, than he human ever again.

A knock on the door.

Bryan grumbled, pulled on his pants and answered.

The Russian stood in the doorway, dressed down in a black long sleeved shirt and sleeping pants. His hair hung in his face and he looked down, asked without words if he could come in. Bryan stepped aside and remembered how immaculate Sergei's room was, especially in comparison to his, with his clothes on the floor, pillows and blankets askew since he had threatened death to the cleaning lady on day one. The quiet man stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to really look at anything.

"Well, whaddyou' want?" Bryan sat on the bed and watched him.


	8. Chapter 8

Dear Internet: Jesus Christ why did it take me so long to write this? I blame King of Fighters XI. Not XII, XII sucked, but XI was amazing.

He shook his head slowly and sat beside Bryan.

"How am I supposed to know what to do if you don't tell me?"

Sergei took both his hands, moved closer to Bryan, and moved the other man so Bryan was made to hold him. He curled his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes and almost immediately Sergei was asleep, laying against Bryan's chest, his hands curled against his shoulder. Not even a goodnight kiss, just the comfort of having someone sleeping beside you. He moved Sergei to cover him with a blanket, leaned against the headboard of the bed and watched the stillness with which the man slept.

He barely shifted over the course of the night, so much more calm than when he was alone, he slept through until sunrise. Bryan watched him, played with his hair, perfectly black, ran a hand down his arm and wished he could sleep beside him. Wished the resolve to stay a monster could make it past this moment. Wished for so many things, things that contradicted each other, he didn't rightly know what he was looking for. He tried to shut off his mind running his hands over the sleeping Russian's body, letting his fingers map out the shapes of muscle while his eyes were closed. He rested his head against the top of the sleeper's and registered the scent of shampoo, raised lines on his back where scars would be. Every time he tried to silence his brain, the mechanics picked up movement down the halls, above him, below him, the sun was coming up and the tournament fighters were beginning to rise. As if on command, Sergei shifted, and Bryan startled, thinking he was awake, when all he did was adjust the blanket and bury his face against Bryan's shoulder, sighing softly. He would let the man sleep as long as he pleased, soften those tired blue eyes.

When Bryan was human, he would have killed to feel like this for another human being. Of course, when he was human, he would have liked for it to be with a slender, smart girl, not this silent, cold man who curled into him as he slept. He wasn't sure what had changed, but he also wasn't sure he would be happier if this were a girl. He couldn't really fathom changing Sergei Dragunov, save to hear his voice, just once. And realized he didn't even know if the man spoke English. It was more than possible to just upload a translator into his systems and understand Russian as surely as if he had grown up in Moscow, but where did Sergei grow up? Did he get on well with his family? Did he talk to them? Did he have siblings, or friends? Bryan wondered if he was the same person at home as he was in the tournament. He wondered if it mattered. This time, when his bed partner moved, he stirred, and woke, looked through still sleepy eyes at Bryan, and brought his lips to the man's cheek to say good morning. It was full dawn.

"You are fully aware that I'm a cyborg, right? And that before that I was mostly a zombie?"

He laughed quietly, actually, silently, and nodded.

"And you've come to the conclusion you don't give a flying fuck."

Another nod, and he kissed Bryan gently.

"'M pretty much not completely sure I even have a sex drive."

Laughing, in his strange, silent way, Sergei shrugged. He looked like a child, in bedclothes that still managed to cover everything but his face and his hands, his hair spilling into his face, as expressive as if his spoke real words, belied that he didn't mind Bryan's shortcomings as a human being, he wanted to make a real go at this love affair, if that was what it had become.

Bryan realized, with a shock, he wasn't certain he had love as an emotion anymore. He didn't know what he was capable of feeling.


	9. Chapter 9

Dear Internet- I get the feeling this fic won't be hugely long, maybe five more chapters, little ones like this. I own no one, sorry to disappoint, but I do like writing this, so I will return to this pairing in the future. And we've still got a while to go in this one, I think, we'll see. I make no promises, save for love to my reviewers, followers, etc.

But he could almost remember that headrush that was emotion, he could almost imitate it, and he'd do that, for this one. He'd hope that would be enough. He captured Sergei's lips with his own, tilted the slightly slimmer man back into the bed, claiming his mouth and wondering what it felt like past the way his sensors went mad with the threat of overheating. Sergei kissed back hungrily, almost violently, letting searching hands press under Bryan's shirt and try to find places to make him want it too. He already wanted it, he couldn't tell Sergei nothing was going to make him feel. The Russian slid Bryan's shirt off and threw it to the side, traced the long scar over his chest, kissed it, then his throat, then his lips.

Bryan didn't know what else he was supposed to do, so he made love to the other man. Couldn't decide if it was really making love, or fucking, but he liked the idea of making love better, so there it stayed. And he held Sergei after, face buried in the fall of black hair, kissing the back of his neck. Sergei turned around and looked at him quizzically.

"Oh yeah, said I didn't like cuddling, didn't I?"

A nod.

"Think I lied, this is kind of nice." So he gathered the other man into his arms, spent and sloppily happy, or at least content. Fucking hadn't been as violent as he had thought it was going to be, as soon as they were bared to each other he had an urge to protect, to care for his mate. It was primal, basic, less than human so he couldn't argue it, simply follow the motions and laugh a little when his sensors told him he was in danger. Danger of hyperventilating, overheating, the chemicals being released into his bloodstream could potentially harm him. He thought it was funny that merely partaking in orgasm could bring him so close to full system failure. He wanted to do it again.

"Good for another round?" Bryan smirked.

Sergei held up his hand to mean, he supposed, give him a few more minutes.

"Not gonna' give me an answer?"

_I already did_, spoke the crook of his brow.

"Just say something. Yes, or no, or fuck you. Or fuck me. I know you can."

He shook his head, began to sit up.

Bryan pushed him back into the bed. "No. You're not going anywhere until I've gotten some sound out of you. You want me, you got me. Temper and all." He sneered, pinned the Russian to the bed.

Sergei tried to maneuver his way out from under the other man, to no avail. He wasn't human, his strength mechanic, overwhelming. Giving in, he laid back and stared Bryan down defiantly.

"Good. Now say my name."

He was greeted by silence and finally understanding how someone young, slight and haunted could have so much control over those around him. Were it not for determination he would have backed down from those cold blue eyes.

Instead he did something he immediately regretted. He slapped him, hard, kept him pinned to the hotel bed. "Speak."

He got nothing for his violence. He felt Sergei's fists clench, the man bit his lip. Fuck, Bryan figured, gone and ruined it now, he doesn't want me anymore, not at all. There was none of that strange affection in his eyes anymore.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He pressed his lips to Sergei's and begged between kisses, please, just once, please, let me hear your voice. Eventually he yielded, not to speaking, but kissed back. At least he wasn't completely lost, Bryan realized, at least he hadn't ruined this entirely. But he had created a rift, one that would only grow until someone caved. He knew neither of them would.


End file.
